


When the Weather Turns

by Tangerine



Category: Age of Apocalypse (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bars and Pubs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigars, Embedded Images, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine
Summary: It's the Age of Apocalypse. Prelate Summers has grown increasingly uncomfortable with his role in Apocalypse's brutal regime. A chance encounter on a stormy night with Weapon X leads to the unexpected, but Scott has to decide just how far he's willing to take things in this end-time world.Written for the 2019 Marvel Reverse Big Bang.
Relationships: Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers
Comments: 34
Kudos: 94
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2019





	When the Weather Turns

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When the Weather Turns - accompanying art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674371) by [CrowSizna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowSizna/pseuds/CrowSizna). 



> Art is by the talented [Crow-Sizna](https://crow-sizna.tumblr.com/). I basically took one look at Scott and Logan and had an entire story blossom in my head. Thank you for creating such a beautiful piece. 
> 
> Note: the art is embedded in the story and is decidedly NSFW due to naked dudes.
> 
> Thanks to [menel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel) for the beta. Your enthusiasm and encouragement was so appreciated, and it made writing my first Scogan fic a lot less daunting. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

The rain started in the evening. The sky opened with a flash of light followed by a boom of thunder. Scott sat by the window, staring out at the storm, the scene lacking the depth it would have had with full vision. The phantom of his left eye ached – real or imagined – whenever the weather turned sour.

In the hallway, he could hear Alex and the Bedlam brothers. He made no move until they were gone.

He swapped his visor for a pair of ruby-quartz glasses, darkened to an almost black shade, and changed into civilian clothes. Less inconspicuous than he would have liked, but between the rain and the dark and the illusion of disguise, he felt confident he could slip away without being noticed or followed. 

He left without knowing where he was going. Not _Heaven_ – Alex and the Bedlam Brothers would likely be there, and he didn't need Worthington gathering information about him to trade away later. 

He also didn't need the bright extravagance of _Heaven_ making him feel dirtier than he already did.

Most days, Scott could live with the decisions he'd made. Today was not one of those days. 

So he walked to clear his head, wash a bit of the blood off his hands, make peace with the life he lived. 

He walked for hours.

Without meaning to, he found himself in lower Manhattan. The crowd began to thin out a little. A memory crossed his mind: his father saying, in the wettest part of September, _it ain't a fit night out for man or beast_ as they sat by the fire as a family. Before Alex hated him, before his parents… before.

Before. 

Lost in his head, Scott almost didn't see the door. He was three feet past it when he caught it in the corner of his vision, red-tinted and unmarked. It opened, and two people – mutants, men, mid-twenties, dressed in nondescript clothing – came tumbling out, laughing brightly at a shared joke. Suddenly aware of their surroundings, they sobered quickly, but their steps remained light as they walked away. 

Scott had seen these sorts of bars before and ignored them. Ignored his own urges. Ignored his need.

Or tried to anyway. He knew where else to look when he needed sex. It was usually nowhere good. 

Perhaps it was the ache in his head, or the itch of his own skin, or the fact he'd been walking in a downpour for hours, but he moved towards the door more easily than he would have expected. No one was following him. Sinister's spies weren't nearly as good as they should be. He knew he was alone. 

Inside, the light was dim. The only bright spot was the bar, where a bartender worked, pale hair shimmering under the lamps above his head. Scott had never seen him before, which struck him as odd, even as the man turned to him and his eyes flashed – one of them literally – with instant recognition.

"What can I get for you?" the man asked, his slight accent impossible to place.

"Scotch, neat," he said. A chair behind him screeched against the floor. Instinctively, Scott turned, his fingers going for his glasses, just as a body came hurtling towards him with a snarled, " _Summers_!"

There was a brief moment of chaos where the illusion of peace he'd managed to create for himself threatened to crack, but then the bartender was between them, knives between the fingers of each hand. The sharp points of the right one pressed into the soft skin under Scott's chin. Likewise, the left was pressed into Weapon X's throat, already drawing blood. "No violence here," the bartender warned. 

"How the fuck are you gonna stop me?" Weapon X growled, pushing forward into the knives. Every inch of him was tense, thrumming with unleashed rage, his extracted claws catching the light. 

"Luck," the man replied with a faint grin. "Don't press it. If you can act like gentlemen, you're free to stay. If you can't… well, please leave with the understanding that you'll never be welcomed back." 

To Scott's disbelief, Weapon X considered this long and hard then eventually stepped back. His claws retracted. Blood trickled down his neck as his pierced skin knit itself back together. With a faint noise of disgust, Weapon X sat back down at his table, hidden in the darkest corner. Eyes fixed on Scott, he took a drink of beer.

"Isn't it better when we all play nice with each other?" the bartender asked, flipping back over the bar. 

"You know I fucking hate optimists, bright eye," Weapon X rumbled with a surprising hint of humour. 

The bartender ignored him, sliding Scott's tumbler of scotch across the counter. There were no seats at the bar, so Scott scanned the room for an empty table. The darkness made it difficult, especially with his tinted glasses on top of a single working eye, but he found one. It was right next to Weapon X. 

Weapon X gave him a look that basically amounted to _I fucking dare you, Prelate_. 

Scott sat down and glared at him with as much dignity as a man who resembled a drowned rat could.

The bartender sighed audibly. 

That was how it started.

* * *

Two weeks later, Scott found himself in the same area, and this time, he hesitated outside. The storm was worse than the one fourteen days ago, a relentless downpour that had cleaned the streets of anyone with even the slightest bit of sense. Not him, of course, but he'd also spent hours five feet from Weapon X and hadn't killed him _or_ been killed by him. Hadn't told Sinister or Alex or the other Prelates either.

Scott touched the pads of his fingers under his left eye. The bumps of the scars were still prominent, marring his face, inviting stares from friend and foe alike. He tried to keep them hidden by the sweep of his hair. The skin felt like it belonged to another man. Even after so many years, the nerves remained mostly unhealed. He could run his fingernail over his cheek and pinpoint the exact moment he lost feeling.

He should have killed him. It was as good a chance as he was ever going to get. He should have done it. Especially now that Weapon X knew something about him that no one, not even Worthington, knew. 

But Weapon X had been there, too. Looking for the same thing. He'd left alone, after finishing two more beers, and Scott had watched him go while marinating in his damp clothes, barely drunk at all.

He could have scratched the itch then. Found a guy to fuck, got it out of his system, but after all that, he hadn't been in the mood. He'd ordered one last scotch, sucked it back instead of savouring it, then left.

What followed had been a long, hard two weeks. He'd let three people go from the breeding pens, which was too fucking many, but none of them would have stood a chance separately. Sinister had been disappointed in him. He'd taken his dressing down, ignoring how pleased Alex had looked behind him.

He was exhausted. He needed a drink. 

Scott stepped out from the shadows and moved towards the door, which was exactly where he remembered it. He pushed it open, and the bartender looked up, nodding slightly, before returning his attention to drying the glass in his hand. "The usual?" he asked, placing the tumbler on the counter. 

Scott nodded. He hung his coat by the door, a puddle already forming on the floor. He kept his eye fixed on it for a long moment before finally looking away. He paid the bartender, then sat down at the same table he'd been at before. He smelled it first, the scent of a lit cigar, before he heard the low laugh. 

"Thought I would have scared you off the last time, Prelate," Weapon X said, puffing on his cigar, pinched between the fingers and the thumb of his one remaining hand. His other arm rested on the table, beside a pint of beer. Scott's gaze flickered to where it ended, at the wrist, encased in metal. 

"I have more of a right to be here than you do," Scott said, biting back the edge in his voice. 

"Do you?" Weapon X asked, his eyes raking down Scott's body, his mouth twisted in a smirk around the cigar between his teeth. "Yeah, a pretty boy like you. Do you like it when they pull your hair?"

"For fuck's sake," Scott snapped, hating that he was the first to look away. 

Weapon X chuckled lowly to himself. "You gonna pretend that's not why you're here?"

"Are you?"

"Nah," Weapon X said, taking another draw on the cigar. "I know exactly why I'm here." 

Scott scowled into his drink then took a slow, measured sip. He sat back, savouring the burn down his throat as he surveyed the room. The lighting was low, casting most of the tables into shadows. How many men were here? How many of them would sell that they saw him here to the highest bidder?

He shouldn't have come. He knew better than to make careless mistakes like this one. 

Scott pushed his chair back. "Next time I see you, I'm going to kill you," Scott told him. 

"Relax, Summers," Weapon X said, swapping the cigar for a swig of his beer. Scott paused mid-turn, glancing back at him. Weapon X returned his gaze evenly. "Seems like no one's told you the way this place works. You're here because it let you inside. You ain't worth it? You never even see the door." 

"That sounds like bullshit," Scott said.

Weapon X shrugged. "Eh, it's the truth. Shocked the shit out of me seeing your mug walk in here, but it ain't my call whether you're worth the risk or not. This fucking place decided that for you, and there ain't anyone more surprised about that than me. I'd been itching to kill you since that day in the pens."

"Why didn't you?" Scott asked. 

Weapon X shrugged again. "This is the only place left in New York to get a decent beer."

Scott looked towards the door then at the bartender, who was making a drink and chatting to... someone? Scott's eye couldn't quite focus, looking anywhere but at the space where the bartender handed the drink. Feeling vaguely nauseous, Scott sat down heavily in the nearest chair, exhaling.

"Is this one of Worthington's side projects?" Scott asked, once his stomach had settled a bit. 

Weapon X shook his head. "Nah. I wouldn't come here if it was. No, our bartender is something else. Not human... but he ain't a mutant either. Tight-lipped about what exactly he is, 'cept an exile, but he has beer, and he's never sold me out, even though he could use the money. I ain't exactly welcome 'round these parts."

Half-way through a measured sip, Scott snorted into his tumbler. "Whose fault is that?"

"Ain't complaining," Weapon X replied with a faint smirk. "I know exactly which side I'm on."

Scott prickled a bit at the comment, but it wasn't exactly a lie. He was still under Sinister's thumb, still had Apocalypse's eyes on him. The pens were still full of mutants, locked up like animals. There were days he imagined opening all the doors and setting them free. He would deserve whatever came next.

He'd deserve every last agonizing second of it.

* * *

That night, Scott left before Weapon X did. The itch in him had sparked into a fire, but the thought of Weapon X seeing him like that – desperate, vulnerable, _human_ – put him off the idea. He'd spent the last few years learning to temper all the feelings in him down to nothing, so it was easy to do now. 

Scott could still smell the cigar smoke, clinging to the lapel of his coat, the strands of his hair. 

He went back to his room and peeled off his soaking clothes, leaving them in a puddle by the door. He kept the lights dim, like they had been in that nameless place, but he still caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror. He stopped and stared at himself and his scarred body and his ruined face. 

It reminded him every day of what he had almost done, what he had almost sacrificed, for a woman he barely knew. Of how much he had changed. Until then, he had thought his soul was beyond saving, that the goodness inside him – and he had been good once, with parents who loved him and a brother who looked at him like he could do nothing wrong – was gone forever. He'd accidentally given himself hope.

It'd been easier to live without it. 

Scott turned away from the mirror and went into the bathroom, turning on the water in the shower, letting it heat up. He swapped out his glasses for a pair of goggles, wetting the insides of the lenses before pulling them over his face. He worked his hair out from the strap, feeling how stringy the rain had made it. The sky was as unhealthy as the land beneath it, festering and putrid. Other cities weren't as bad, but New York had decayed to ash.

He wished he had been able to see it, before.

Once the room filled with steam, Scott reached in and adjusted the temperature before stepping under the water. He tipped his head back, letting the stream wet his hair, and exhaled the breath he'd been holding since he'd left Weapon X exactly where he'd found him: drinking a beer and breathing free.

What was he doing now? Scott wondered, eyes closed, water running in rivulets down his back. Was he doing what they'd both gone through that door to do? An image came to his mind unbidden of a faceless man on his knees – pretty, eager – with Weapon X's cock in his mouth, stretching his lips thin.

It'd been a while since Scott had sucked another man's cock. He was practically starving for it. 

The itch in him became almost unbearable then, burning hotter than the water on his skin. He curved his hand around his cock, stroking himself to full hardness, eye still closed. He jacked himself slowly, pulling the pleasure out from the numbness, panting softly with each exhale. He tried not to think of anything, especially not of Weapon X between that pretty, faceless man's legs, slowly fucking into him.

How that man would beg for it, cry for it, do anything he could for it. How he'd shiver, and moan, enjoying every second of feeling that cock and those hands and that mouth pulled from his body. He tried not to think about how much that man wanted it, how much he _needed_ it. How desperate he was. 

Scott came with a groan, fist working on his cock, spurting hot over his own skin. 

He stood there for a long time, eye closed, head tipped forward. He felt like he was suffocating.

* * *

Scott spent the next few days too busy to think about how dangerous his thoughts had turned. He met with Sinister and Alex at the Brain Trust, and if anything was going to happen, it would have happened then, but his shields held, even as he felt those six brains prodding at his mind, invasive but harmless.

Then he spent another week in his own personal hell: doing retrieval missions with Alex and the Guthries. Sinister had identified a pair of siblings – mutants, powerful, hiding out in the Appalachians – that he felt were worth recruiting. Scott couldn't think of a worse team for it. The Bedlams at least had humour, the Beaubier Twins their charm. Even Emplate and the Monets might've been a better choice. 

On the surface, at least, the Monets were just children. Scott had witnessed people fall for that before. 

In the end, it hadn't mattered at all. The sister fought back, and when they realized they couldn't win against the Elite Mutant Force, they made sure they wouldn't be given to the breeding pens. They took half the mountain with them, and Scott stood back and let them. He might've been able to free them if allowed enough time, but the time between then and now, especially with the Dark Beast involved… 

Scott couldn't blame them. And while he wished he couldn't blame himself – he told himself every time he had to turn away from the blank gazes of the mutants in the pens, dulled by the mental effects of the Brain Trust, but still there, always there, in their eyes, that he couldn't save them all – he always did.

He stood there and surveyed the scene through the rubble. 

"You sure convinced them, Scott," Alex said, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead where blood oozed from a shallow wound. He wiped his hand clean on his pants before starting to brush off the fallout. "Can't wait to hear how you explain this fuck up to Sinister. We just lost to two amateurs." 

"They made their choice. Let me worry about Sinister," Scott replied. "Guthrie Clan, report in."

"Doing just fine," Sam said, spitting on the ground. He was covered in debris from the fight. Liz stood beside him, her uniform singed where she'd taken the brunt of the force. She shrank back down to her natural size then rolled her shoulders and cracked her back. Sam tilted his head. "Lizzie, you all right?"

"Right as rain, Sammy. Shame we aren't headed back with a few new faces. They hit like trucks." 

"We should have been more prepared," Alex said, tone sharp and accusatory. The Guthries shrugged him off, both looking a little worse for wear around the edges. Without another target, Alex turned his anger at their failure on Scott. After all these years, Scott barely registered it anymore. "What a waste."

"Are you done whining, baby brother?" Scott asked blandly. Alex swore at him before marching off.

Scott took one last look around then headed back to their transport. Alex had been right about one thing: it had been a waste. Waste of a life, waste of a future. Just such a fucking waste. Scott hadn't even known their names, just that they'd been where Sinister had said they would be and they'd been twins.

* * *

"Was beginning to think I wasn't going to see you again, Summers," Weapon X said. 

It'd been three weeks since their last encounter. Scott had thought about coming sooner, but the sky had remained stubbornly bright. And even when it started pouring, he thought about going somewhere else. Anywhere else. He was, after all, one of the alpha mutant elite. Very few doors would be locked to him.

And yet he'd come back here, hoping a man – who was decidedly his enemy – would be waiting.

"I've been busy," Scott replied without turning around. The bartender was nowhere to be seen. Part of him was tempted to just reach over the counter and grab the first bottle he touched. Sense overriding instinct, he went to his usual table instead. He glanced at Weapon X briefly. "Expecting someone?" 

A bottle of Canadian Club and two tumblers sat on Weapon X's table, untouched. 

"Yeah," he said. Weapon X grabbed the bottle and squeezed it under his left arm. With the right, he twisted the cap off. He poured a healthy serving of whisky into one glass and then did the same with the other. He pushed one towards Scott. "Can't live through another night watching you drink scotch."

"I like scotch," Scott replied, hesitating before taking the drink. 

"You'll like this more. Cheers."

Weapon X held up his glass, and Scott, before he realized what he was doing, touched their tumblers together. He ignored the smirk that earned him. Against his better judgment, Scott tasted it. Lighter, smoother, but the effect was the same. He closed his eye, enjoying the pleasant burn down his throat.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" Scott asked. 

Weapon X snorted. "Summers, I may not be a rocket scientist, but even I can put two and two together. When the weather turns, you show up. You ain't as subtle as you think you are." Weapon X took a moment to light a fresh cigar. "I imagine it ain't easy to sneak away with Sinister breathing down your neck."

"No," Scott agreed. He turned down a drag on the cigar when Weapon X offered it to him. 

Weapon X took a deep puff. "Then why risk your hide?"

"I'm not his pet," Scott replied sharply. "Why the fuck do you even want to know?" 

Weapon X didn't say anything, just continued to puff on his cigar and take the occasional drink. Even when Scott slammed the rest of his whisky back and reached for a refill, Weapon X just kept looking at him contemplatively. When he finally spoke, it was like he was remarking upon the weather, bland, neutral, just idle commentary to fill the void. "Those breeding pens of yours ain't particularly secure, eh?"

Scott went cold. His glass clattered on the table when he placed it down.

"Follow me," Weapon X said, snuffing out his cigar. "Since you still got two hands, grab the bottle, the glasses and my cigar," he added, walking by Scott and reaching behind the counter to grab a key off the wall. He looked back at Scott, who still hadn't moved, who had barely even breathed. "You coming?" 

Now would be the time to leave. If there had ever been a perfect time, it was this one. 

But Scott just stood up and followed Weapon X down the hall to a room at the very end. 

The room was... not what he expected. Lavish, he thought, looking over the furniture. There was a large bed covered in a mix of fabrics – velvet, satin, fur. Two chairs and a table. The farthest wall had a variety of sex toys on display. Off the main room was a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. 

"Where's the bartender?" Scott asked, because it was the only question his brain could form. 

"If you're hoping for a threesome, he ain't interested. Takes all his concentration just to keep the ambience going, if you catch my drift," Weapon X replied idly, sitting down in one of the armchairs. He stared openly at Scott, clearly ready to have his whisky back. When Scott still hadn't moved, Weapon X snorted. "Relax, Summers. Just thought we should continue our conversation in private."

"Why are you doing this? Any of this? Why didn't you just kill me the minute I walked in here?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you," Weapon X replied. "Deal?" 

Scott – exhausted, broken, lonely – sat down.

* * *

Weapon X filled their glasses again in the same way he had before. It took longer than it would have if Scott had never destroyed his left hand, but what was done was done. He wasn't surprised that Weapon X had developed his own strategies to cope. Scott had learned to live with only one eye. His depth perception was occasionally an issue on the field, and his blind spot was larger than a fully sighted person, but he made do. 

"Jeannie always thought there was something good in you," Weapon X remarked conversationally, plucking the cigar off the table and re-lighting it. "Personally, I thought that was a crock of shit, but I should have known she'd be right." He took a long drag. "You let those kids go. The colourful ones."

"Dark Beast would have..." Scott trailed off, clenching his hand around the drink. He didn't trust himself to be able to move it to his mouth without spilling it yet. "They were too young for what he would do to them. Sinister had thought they were related, but then it turned out they'd just... found each other." 

"And then they found me and Jean," Weapon X told him. "And we did right by them." 

Scott nodded, feeling something loosen in his chest. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed to _know_. 

"They were tight-lipped about what actually happened," Weapon X continued, resting the cigar on an ashtray, swapping it for the glass of whisky. "Think they named every member of the EMF except one. Made a couple of things clear. One, always listen to Jeannie, and two, those kids were protecting you." 

Scott finally took a drink. It burned. He finally stopped shivering. 

"Not the first time I'd heard the story either. Escaping the pens, talking around you. Makes a guy wonder. I ain't never heard anything for sure, but this place let you in, so maybe you ain't a total waste."

Scott didn't know if that made it better or worse. Alex suspected something, obviously, but Scott couldn't tell if that was because he had proof or because he wanted Scott to be a traitor. At one time, Scott had hoped they could do it together, the Summers brothers against the world, like good old times, but the boy Scott had grown up with was gone. He'd probably just increased Alex's paranoia about him. 

"I didn't kill you the first time on account of the beer," Weapon X added, picking up his cigar again. 

"Even though I prefer scotch?" Scott asked.

Weapon X smirked around his cigar. "Let's just say you're lucky you're so pretty."

That was the second time Weapon X had called him pretty. The first time, he'd been too angry to respond to it, but the second time... he resisted the urge to touch his face and deny it. He hadn't shaved in over a week. His damp hair covered most of the scarring, but it was still there, puckering his skin. He had a good body – he worked out every day, like clockwork – but Weapon X wasn't looking at that.

"Aren't you married?" Scott snapped, trying not to let his discomfort show. 

"Never did get her to the altar," Weapon X replied, exhaling a stream of smoke. "I ain't a cheater if that's what's got your panties in a twist. We were together and then we weren't anymore. Both learned the hard way that sometimes gratitude can look like love. We keep up appearances. It's just easier."

"And you come here for the beer..." Scott trailed off, leaving the thought hanging on a question.

"And the sex," Weapon X confirmed. "Haven't had much of the latter recently. Been dealing with a mystery I couldn't make heads or tails of 'til now." He smiled faintly. "You're also a giant cock-block, Summers. Ain't no one gonna come near me when Prelate Summers is sitting at the next table over."

That got Scott's hackles up. "You could have told me to fuck off at any time."

"Could have." Weapon X exhaled again, still smirking, smoke rolling off his lips. "Didn't want to."

Until then, Scott had been pretty good at compartmentalizing this entire situation. He'd been aware – of course he'd been aware – of where they were and why they'd both ended up there, but it had almost been enough just to _talk_ to someone. To sit and drink with another person, away from... everything. 

But he'd be a liar if he said Weapon X wasn't an attractive man. Scott liked his men a little rough, always had. Liked being fucked by them, their sinewy bodies moving against his back, their body hair soft against his skin. He had a type, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that Weapon X was it. That was the easy part. It was everything else – the sides they were on, the lords they served – that was much harder.

Weapon X made the decision for him. "Be a shame if that bed went to waste," he said, snuffing out his cigar in his empty whisky glass. He looked at Scott, eyes sweeping appreciatively over his body, gaze eventually coming to rest between Scott's legs. "And I can tell by your smell that you're interested."

"You aren't the only one who wants to get laid," Scott replied evenly.

"You'd go to bed with the man who clawed out your eye?" 

It was an oddly old-fashioned turn of phrase, and Scott felt his face heat inexplicably. The truth was he didn't usually do this in a bed. In an alley, in a dark corner, in a restroom that smelled like piss. Scott wasn't the type of guy anyone took to bed. He'd never slept with the same person twice. He hadn't been worth it. 

Scott struggled to regain his equilibrium. "You'd fuck the man who blasted off your hand?" 

"Looks like it," Weapon X said, his gaze still fixed on Scott, though it had moved to his face now. That was almost worse. "I'm willing to call it even if you are. Maybe that day might've played out different if either one of us had been thinking straight, but it ain't often I find a man whose temper rivals mine."

Once Scott made up his mind about something, he was usually quick to follow through. Without saying another word, he stood up and walked over to the bed, aware of Weapon X behind him. He stood there for a moment, knees pressed against the mattress, then started unbuttoning his shirt. Dropping it to the floor, he almost jumped when a warm hand pressed to his bare back, smoothing gently over his skin.

"What do you need, Summers?" Weapon X asked, rumbling in his ear. That same hand curved around to palm Scott's cock through his pants. Scott stood still, trying not to arch into his touch, but it took every ounce of his strength to temper his response. It was like Weapon X knew anyway. He chuckled. 

"I need you to shut up and fuck me," Scott snapped, annoyed that he'd been so transparent. 

"I can do that," Weapon X assured him, voice thick with promise. "Take your clothes off."

Scott stripped down the rest of the way, quick and efficient. Behind him, Weapon X took a little longer, the rustling of fabric the only evidence that this wasn't one big sick joke to test his loyalty. Scott finally turned around, looking down at him through his one remaining eye, keeping his expression measured.

His self-control lasted for all of three seconds. 

Without warning, Weapon X dropped to his knees and took Scott's dick in his mouth. 

Scott hadn't expected that – hadn't been more than half-hard, hadn't believed this was actually happening – but he felt himself respond to the pull of Weapon X's lips, the slide of his tongue, the pressure of Weapon X's hand around the base of his cock. The metal of his other arm was oddly cool against the back of Scott's thigh, holding him still as Weapon X sucked on his cock. He was good at it. 

Just when Scott thought he might come in Weapon X's mouth, Weapon X stopped and stood. Scott's fingers curled at his sides, refusing to reach for him. He kept his eye on Weapon X, watching him through the curtain of hair that hid his face. Scott noticed immediately how wet his lips were. 

Weapon X moved forward, and Scott instinctively pulled back. "You don't kiss?"

"No," Scott said.

Weapon X shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, with the tone of voice that clearly added _your loss_. 

Scott turned away from him, climbing onto the bed. His cock hung heavy between his legs, still achingly hard, and he resisted the urge to rub himself on the bedclothes, just for a modicum of relief. Weapon X's fingers touched him suddenly, slick with lubricant, and Scott held his breath, braced on his hands and knees, head bent. Two fingers prodded at him, slipping into his ass, slowly fucking into him. 

Scott couldn't help himself. He moaned. 

"That's better," Weapon X murmured, fingering him, twisting and rubbing and hitting that perfect spot just so. Scott pushed back at him, impatient, and Weapon X ignored him, taking his time, teasing him. Scott felt the urge to come rise again, curling hot in his belly. For a second time, Weapon X stopped. 

"Fuck," Scott swore as Weapon X pulled his fingers out. "Just do it."

"Christ, you're impatient, Summers. Hold your damn horses," Weapon X said, moving into position behind him, a slick hand curling over Scott's hip and tilting his pelvis. "I can get a rubber if you want it," he added casually, as if they were discussing the weather, "but my healing factor means I'm clean." 

"Do you care if I am?" Scott asked, feeling the head of Weapon X's cock prodding between his legs. 

"Nah," Weapon X replied, the rumble of his voice low and scratchy. Scott pushed back at him again, too close to begging for his own comfort, but Weapon X finally did what Scott wanted. He began to push his cock into Scott's ass, agonizingly slow, stretching him wide, until finally, he was fully seated.

Scott took a moment to savour the feeling, exhaling slightly, quickly acclimatizing to his girth. 

And then Weapon X began to fuck him. No more caution, no more stopping at the last minute. Scott took every inch given to him, fucking back to get Weapon X as deep as he could go. The piles of blankets and furs were soft under his knees, a novel experience, and Scott twisted his hands in them for leverage. 

Scott closed his eye, focussing on the sensation of Weapon X moving in his body. He almost jumped when Weapon X's hand curled around his cock and began stroking him in time with his thrusts. His other arm laid across Scott's back, holding him down, the metal casing cool against his heated skin. 

Scott came, finally, with a cry of relief that he tried to bite from his own lips. Eye still closed, he struggled to catch his breath as Weapon X pumped into his body with increasing desperation, mouth making damp, breathy noises in Scott's ear, somewhere close behind him. Scott clenched around him. 

"Goddamn it," Weapon X growled, fucking into him one last time before coming with a loud groan. 

The moment hung between them, still attached at the groin, and then Weapon X carefully pulled out and flopped back onto the mattress. Scott thought about standing up, getting dressed, but he found himself sinking into the luxury of the bed. He lay there, shoulder to shoulder with Weapon X. If he had been a different man, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it. But he wasn't a different man at all. 

"You fuck like a champ, Summers," Weapon X said, glancing over at him.

Scott snorted. He knew he should get up, that he needed to get up, but his body still wasn't moving. He watched as Weapon X reached over, grabbing a fresh cigar from his pants pocket and lighting it with a match. Weapon X inhaled and held his breath before he finally exhaled, blowing a neat row of smokey rings. Scott wondered how old he was, and how he'd gotten the tattoos on his face, and why he was doing this. Scott knew he no longer ran with Magneto and the X-Men. Had he told Jean about him?

Or was he a dirty little secret like he deserved to be? Scott didn't know which option he preferred. 

That was enough to shock Scott out of his lethargy. Without saying anything, he sat up and began to dress, aware of the slickness between his ass cheeks and the ache between his legs. Weapon X regarded him silently, puffing away on his cigar, his thick cock still half-hard and arced over his hairy belly. 

"Forecast's clear for the next little while," Weapon X remarked idly. "See you any sooner?"

Scott counted out six days in his head as he tied the laces of his boots. "Thursday," he said, "if I can."

"Thursday," Weapon X agreed, and Scott stood up and walked out of the room, the building, and into the pouring rain. He took the long way to his apartment, soaked to the bone by the time he got back. Part of him expected someone to be waiting, to take him in and expose him, but nobody was there.

* * *

Those six days were the longest of his life. He spent most of them in the presence of Apocalypse, who barely paid him any attention. Scott knew of Apocalypse's plans for him, that he demanded more from Scott than Scott's current position as Commander of the EMF. Sinister had never seemed pleased by the idea, whereas Scott had been neutral at best. It had felt inevitable, becoming one of the Four Horsemen.

Now Scott dreaded it. 

Paranoia had never suited him, but when Apocalypse looked at him – those rare, few, chilling times – Scott wondered what he saw. A man loyal to Sinister? Or to the High Lord himself? Scott had spent so long living up to expectations and surpassing them that he would have once given every piece of himself away. But he had grown dissatisfied, and if he was being honest, it had started before he had met Jean Grey.

He just didn't know what to do about it, so he continued to hide and buy time. It'd begun to wear at him.

Did Apocalypse see a traitor when he looked at Scott? 

Did he see the truth of him?

Did anyone?

But Scott kept going, nodding when he was expected to nod, leading when he was expected to lead. He killed someone on Tuesday, without meaning to, intentionally trying not to. Alex had seemed impressed by it, which was the worst part of it all. Scott brushed him off, which infuriated Alex, caused him to slide back into the derisive scowl he always wore around Scott, which was better than the alternative. 

Through it all, the weather stayed clear. 

As Thursday approached, he regretted... whatever it was he had done with Weapon X. Promised, gave his word. By scheduling it, he had made it intentional, made it something to look forward to. He kept expecting, almost hoping, for something to come up, for it to be harder than it was to slip out the door. 

But he simply left the building and walked away. 

It was an hour before he was sure he hadn't been followed. 

He made his way to the club, convinced this would be the night that he couldn't find the door, but it was exactly where he'd left it. The bartender looked up as he entered, his eye flashing briefly, and this time, Scott nodded to him first. The bartender stared at him, startled, and Weapon X's warm laughter twisted out from the shadows. He was at the usual table, an almost empty pint in his hand. He grinned widely. 

"'Bout time," he said, draining the last of his beer. He pushed back his chair and stood up. 

The bartender tossed Weapon X a key, and Scott followed him down the hall to the same ornate room. The door had barely closed before Scott was on his knees, hands at Weapon X's zipper. He shoved his pants down just low enough to bare his buttocks then pulled out his cock and began to stroke it. 

"Missed you, too," Weapon X rumbled fondly, hardening in Scott's hand. 

"Shut up," Scott replied, replacing his hand with his mouth, the blunt head of Weapon X's cock slipping between his lips. He licked and sucked, bobbing on his shaft, taking him deeper and deeper. Weapon X's fingers twisted through his hair, but he didn't pull, just petted his head, urging him on. Closing his eye, Scott put his entire focus on getting Weapon X to come in his mouth. It wasn't long before he did.

Scott sat back on his heels, dragging one hand over his mouth, the other still splayed over one hairy ass cheek. He dropped them both into his lap, taking a moment before standing up. Weapon X tried to kiss him but again, Scott pulled back. Weapon X chuckled. "You'll suck my cock, but you won't kiss me?" 

"Is that a deal-breaker?" Scott asked, tugging off his shirt and draping it over a chair. 

"Nah, just a crying shame. You've got such a lovely mouth."

Scott scowled, kicking off his pants and climbing onto the bed. He sat there, waiting, but Weapon X didn't move. Turning his head around to glare at him over his shoulder, Weapon X grinned back at him. 

"You've got a lovely everything," Weapon X said, hand on his own cock, stroking himself. His cock began to harden again, arcing proudly from his body. _Fucking healing factor_ , Scott thought, scowl deepening, but he found his gaze drawn to the hypnotic rhythm of Weapon X's hand. From there, it was easy to look at the rest of him, the powerful arms, the rippled plane of his belly, the broad expanse of his well-defined chest. He was short but ripped, his body thick with muscle.

Scott wanted to feel him inside again. He'd spent six days thinking about it. He didn't need flirtation. 

"You don't have to..." Scott ground out and then stopped, squaring his jaw against what he was about to say. 

"Have to what?" Weapon X asked, hand moving hypnotically, eyes fixed on Scott's face as Scott willed him to look anywhere but. Scott wanted to be pushed down and fucked, not whatever this was. "Be nice to you? I know my own reputation, but I treat my bedfellows right. You think you deserve worse?" 

Scott felt his temper rise again, pushing down the shame threatening to surface. He stared at Weapon X, angry; Weapon X looked back, calm. Scott glanced towards his clothes, on the edge of a decision, and then Weapon X sighed heavily. "I ain't fighting about this right now," he said, finally, shaking his head. 

Unlike the previous time, Weapon X didn't tease him or try to draw it out. His fingers were efficient as he prepared them both, but he still took his time pushing into Scott's ass, a slow back and forth that had Scott squirming against the mattress by the time he was fully inside. Weapon X's breath was hot against his back, coming in controlled puffs. His lips moved over Scott's neck, bared by the hair hanging over his shoulder, just the barest hint of contact on Scott's skin. 

"You're gonna come without anyone touching you," Weapon X told him, a warm rumble in his ear.

Weapon X set to fucking him, hard thrusts that sent Scott sprawling to the bed, his aching cock rubbing over a pile of soft fur. He squirmed, trying to get more friction, but the touch remained light. Weapon X changed the angle slightly, going deeper, and Scott pushed back at him, each thrust a perfect burst of pleasure in his belly. It built and built until he was shaking. He came with a howl on Weapon X's cock. 

Scott collapsed on the bed, face buried in the blankets. Weapon X was still moving behind him, each drive of his cock sending aftershocks of sensation throughout Scott's body. He groaned when he came, his face pressed against Scott's shoulder. Hand on Scott's hip, Weapon X carefully extricated himself. 

They didn't talk after. Scott stared at the ceiling as Weapon X lay beside him, eyes closed, dozing. 

They fucked for a second time, slower, with Scott on his side, Weapon X pushing into him. His hand played with Scott's cock, stroking it to full hardness, fingers teasing over his balls. His orgasm the second time built slower, a warm twist of feeling low in his belly as he pulsed around Weapon X's dick, urging him to his own orgasm. They lay there for a while, Weapon X still buried deep inside him. 

Scott indulged in the feeling for a bit, allowed himself that one small thing, then shook him off. Weapon X pulled out with an annoyed groan. "Fuck, you're a prickly bastard, Summers," he grumbled. 

Scott ignored him, climbing off the bed and heading for the bathroom, where he took a quick shower. When he came back into the room, Weapon X was still sprawled on the bed, naked, his hand splayed over his belly. Scott looked at him, edging dangerously close to admiration, and Weapon X grinned. 

"Like what you see, Prelate?" 

"Not bad for an old man," Scott replied flatly, then added, equally as bland, "Weapon X." 

"Logan," Weapon X said roughly. "If you're gonna look at me like that, the name's Logan."

"Scott," he replied, turning away to look for his clothes. He dressed quickly, aware of Weapon X's eyes on his back, watching. _Logan_ , his brain corrected him. He'd known what his name was, of course, but he'd worked hard to separate the mutant from the man, keeping a measured distance between them. 

Scott knew he had to end this, that he had already gone too far, but he heard himself say, "Tuesday."

"Tuesday," Logan agreed amiably, a smile in his voice.

* * *

That became his life, stolen nights with Logan mixed with long days with the EMF, enforcing the monstrous laws that governed Apocalypse's domain. He made it on Tuesday – they shared a meal after they had sex, which was new and uncomfortable, but Scott survived it long enough to find his way back to bed, Logan between his legs, sucking Scott's cock as he fucked two fingers into Scott's ass – and then on the Friday and Monday after that one, but missed the following Thursday due to a mission.

With no way to contact Logan directly and unwilling to leave a note with the bartender, he checked the forecast and was relieved to find it called for rain in a few days. He'd have to put his trust in things he couldn't control – the weather, his schedule, Logan – but in the meantime, he tried to do his job.

He helped two brothers escape, too weak to be of use to Sinister and doomed to the pens. They were rightfully wary of his intentions, but he managed to get them out of Manhattan and onto a transport. He did it while the Bedlam Brothers were on duty, knowing they'd face Sinister's ire without lasting consequence. Even though he was careful, it took hours for the adrenaline to wear off so he could sleep.

He checked the forecast whenever he could. It still predicted rain. 

He ended up at _Heaven_ with Alex and the Beaubier Twins. Within minutes, Alex had disappeared. Scott took a seat at the bar, watching the twins circle the floor like hawks looking for prey. Worthington mingled through the crowd, holding court but giving Northstar and Aurora a wide berth. Not for the first time, Scott wondered how Worthington stayed alive when both sides thought he was a traitor. 

Scott supposed they all did what they had to do in order to survive. Apocalypse allowed for nothing less. 

He kept waiting for Worthington to give something away, but his face remained a perfect mask. He met Scott's eye once but only to incline his head in the way he always did when he saw Scott, entirely neutral, with the same effortless charisma that had manoeuvred a man with wings into the mutant elite.

Sipping his scotch, Scott tried not to think about Logan – where he was, what he was doing, why he was still in New York. All good questions, none of which he particularly wanted to know the answer to. He was aware of the telepaths in the crowd and was careful to guard his thoughts, but still, he drifted. 

He wasn't willing to go as far as to say he missed Logan, but he liked getting laid regularly. 

Scott tried to tell himself that was all it was, but all it felt like was another lie.

* * *

It started raining mid-afternoon and continued into the evening. Scott slipped away, disappearing into the darkness to follow the same routine that had kept him alive this long. He headed to the bar, hood pulled over his hair and face, a poor substitute for an umbrella. He was soaked by the time he arrived. 

Logan wasn't there, but the bartender handed him the key without saying anything.

Scott went to the room and stripped off his clothes, hanging them up to dry. He took a long, hot shower, scrubbing the sweet-smelling shampoo into his hair. It was a surprising extravagance, and a memory flickered at him, of his mother scrubbing him down with a bar of soap after a hard day of playing. 

He didn't know why he'd thought of that, except the soap she'd used had also been strawberry-scented. 

He usually tried to not think of his parents. He was sure they'd be ashamed of him. 

The door to the bathroom opened, and Scott's hand immediately moved to his glasses, but it was only Logan, who stripped down and hung his clothes alongside Scott's before stepping into the shower. Scott didn't say anything as Logan settled behind him, hand pressed low on Scott's back, fingers splayed.

"Sorry I missed Friday," Scott said.

"Shit happens," Logan replied gruffly. "Just glad you didn't finally come to your senses." Scott snorted, trying not to shiver when Logan ran his knuckles down his back, tracing the line of his spine. Logan made a rumbling sound in his throat. "Been a while since I've seen someone so starved for touch."

Scott's good feelings snapped away. Anger flickered at him, threatening to burst into flame. "Who the hell was I supposed to get fucking cuddles from? Sinister? _Apocalypse_? I have a brother who would rather the whole world burned than consider helping me for one second. I bet he'd line right up."

"Easy there, Slim," Logan murmured, hand still on him. "Didn't mean anything by it. It's just familiar."

Scott didn't respond, just tipped his head forward, water rushing over his neck as he fought to ignore Logan's hand, gently smoothing over his skin. He could feel the edges of his control begin to fray. He wanted to say something witty, something caustic, to force Logan to back away, but he felt too raw.

"Are we gonna fuck or not?" Scott asked, sounding more tired than he wanted to. 

Logan chuckled, a warm rumble low in his chest. "We got all night. Unless you got another date?"

"This isn't a date."

"Eh, close enough to it," Logan replied with a slight shrug. "Even ordered us dinner again."

Scott ignored him, pushing the words out of his mind. He turned off the water and dried off, rubbing the towel briskly over his body and between his legs. Logan shook himself dry, his hair standing on end. He followed Scott into the main room, climbing onto the bed behind him. A large hand folded over Scott's hip, turning him over onto his back. "This way okay?" Logan asked, settling between his legs.

"Don't try to kiss me," Scott warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Logan assured him, "but the offer's open if you change your mind." 

Scott made a dismissive noise, shifting his gaze away from Logan's face, unable to handle the fondness in his expression. He felt his back arch when Logan slicked him up, then he let Logan hike his knees over Logan's shoulders. As he began to slowly push into him, Scott's gaze moved back to Logan's face.

Logan smiled at him.

"Was beginning to wonder what you looked like when I did this," he said. "Better than I imagined."

Scott went hot all over. He didn't say anything, but Logan chuckled warmly, making it clear he had noticed. Scott did the only thing he could: close his eye, block him out. Part of him expected Logan to try to kiss him anyway, but he stayed true to his word. He fucked Scott slowly, with careful intent. His hand stroked Scott's cock in time with his thrusts, thrusting leisurely until Scott came all over his belly.

Scott only opened his eyes when Logan pulled out abruptly.

"Though I'd add to the mess," Logan told him with a grin, fist curled around his dick, getting himself off, and Scott nodded slightly, lips pressed together. He watched as Logan's eyes fluttered closed in concentration. He'd never seen this either, Scott realized, what Logan looked like when he orgasmed. 

Scott couldn't stop watching his mouth and the way his lips parted as he came. He looked... beautiful. 

Scott stared at his face, memorizing every detail.

* * *

They met up three more times in the next week and a half. Scott hated how relieved he was to see Logan, especially whenever Scott was the first one there. Every day they weren't together, he berated himself for his desperation, coming up with a thousand different reasons why continuing this charade was a terrible idea. But he couldn't stop himself. It was the only time he felt anything resembling peace. 

He just couldn't stop.

Until now, he had thought that he was perfectly resigned to living his life alone, without affection, without anything more than a cursory hand or an open mouth from a stranger. But maybe Logan was right, and he was starved for touch. He felt vaguely embarrassed that he'd been so easy to read. 

The unease continued to grow in him, but he fought it. He reminded himself that he was already a gene traitor and had been for years, so adding the grievous crime of sleeping with a former X-Men barely made a difference. He'd already made the choice to act against Sinister and, by extension, Apocalypse. 

He'd live with the consequences. He always knew he would. He was that type of man.

But he almost didn't go on that third night. It almost felt like too much. Like instead of being a thing that happened, it was a thing he wanted. That was more dangerous than anything else. If Alex or Sinister or even Apocalypse suspected he had any weaknesses, they would be revealed and exploited. 

But Logan smiled when he saw Scott, the skin creasing around his eyes, and that was enough to make him stay. Enough to follow him to the room in the back, enough to take off his clothes and watch as Logan removed his. Enough to almost consider kissing him, tasting his mouth and confirming the smokey flavour he imagined. Enough to pretend this was anything other than what it was. Temporary. 

"Wish I could see your eyes when you look at me like that," Logan murmured appreciatively. 

Scott snorted. "Couple problems with that," he said, leaning back as Logan settled over him, trailing his fingers over Scott's side, just the faintest touch. He held his breath as Logan's hand moved up his body, not stopping him when he brushed Scott's hair away from his face. "My eyes... my eye... is brown."

"I regret doing that," Logan told him, his thumb tracing the lines of Scott's scars, taking the time to feel each one. Scott exhaled sharply. "Can't excuse it, going feral like I did. But I'm sorry all the same."

"We can't change the past," Scott replied. 

Logan chuckled. It was a humourless sound. "True enough. Apologies fix diddly squat..."

"But I am sorry, too," Scott added, cutting him off.

Logan smiled at him again, and Scott found himself smiling back, just a bit. The smile felt alien on his face, awkward, like the muscle memory had faded from disuse, but it was also familiar. He knew, in that part of him he kept secret, that he'd been a spirited child, a loved one, and he'd been happy then. 

"Ah, that's nice," Logan rumbled, warm and fond, tracing a casual finger over Scott's lower lip. 

Scott looked away quickly before he did something stupid like attempt to kiss him. 

Logan chuckled again, and this time it was honey-sweet. His hand moved from Scott's face to his ass, cupping a cheek possessively. "Hey," he said, waiting until Scott looked back at him. "Know we've gotten used to doing this a certain way, but I wouldn't mind changing it up tonight if you're game." 

"You want me to fuck you?" Scott asked, just to be clear. 

"If you ain't got no objection. I know you have your preferences..." Logan's fingers teased between Scott's legs, pressing against his asshole, and Scott exhaled again. "But I got an itch to scratch."

"I'm not..." Scott said, realizing he was blushing. He shook his head. "I have no objection."

Logan grinned. "Good to hear. Speaking of itches... been thinking about sucking your cock all day."

"Then you should fucking do that," Scott replied, carding his fingers through Logan's hair and guiding him between his legs and onto his hardening cock. Logan sucked at him eagerly, using his lips and his tongue to rouse Scott to full hardness. It took every ounce of Scott's control not to come right then. 

Dangerously close, teetering on the edge, Scott finally pushed Logan off and into the mountain of blankets. He slicked his cock with lube then ran those same slick fingers between the crease of Logan's ass, reaching the tight ring of muscle and slipping a finger inside him. Logan groaned appreciatively. 

Scott pressed another finger in, twisting into his body. "You like that?"

"You know I do," Logan growled, "but it ain't your fingers I want. Gimme that gorgeous cock."

Scott resisted the urge to roll his eye – it was a ridiculous thing to say, but he couldn't deny the warm feeling that curled in his belly at the words – then pulled out his fingers, replacing them with his cock. He fucked into Logan slowly, methodically, a slow slide forward, a sharp pull back, over and over. 

"You're so good at this," Logan told him, his hand clutching at Scott's hip. "Natural fucking talent."

"I can be better," Scott promised him, changing the angle, increasing the speed, and then there was no more talking, just the two of them panting in unison. Scott tried to enjoy it, to make all the good feelings last for as long as they could, but Logan was so hot and tight around him, and he kept making noises that went straight to Scott's dick. He fucked him until Logan came, spurting all over his belly.

With Logan's hand on his ass, encouraging him to continue, Scott kept going until he, too, finally came. Once he had caught his breath, Scott pulled out and had enough presence of mind to clean them up. Logan watched him through heavy lids, laying on his back, cock sitting heavy on his belly. Scott took one long look then removed his glasses, keeping his eye closed, and slipped under Logan's left arm. 

He lay there, ear pressed to Logan's heart, one hand slung over his belly. It was the most he had ever taken for himself. But didn't feel like enough. It never felt like enough. He wanted more. He needed it.

* * *

For days after, Scott's desire for _more_ haunted him. He couldn't even find the words to describe what he meant by _more_. The world they lived in, the nightmare from which they never woke, didn't leave a lot of room for happy endings. What did he want to happen? To ride off into the sunset with Weapon X?

He didn't even know what Logan wanted. He'd never asked. He'd been afraid to. 

While he was struggling with what he wanted, he and Alex, alongside Emplate and the Monets, discovered a large group of people hiding in rural Pennsylvania. Part of him wondered why they hadn't moved further away from Apocalyse's stronghold in New York, but he knew as well as anybody that as long as they remained trapped south of the border, it really didn't matter. They would always be found. 

They were, quite obviously, a family, though he didn't think it was entirely by blood. They looked after each other as they were rounded up, catalogued and tagged, huddled together as much for warmth as for comfort. When they looked at him, it was with a brittle mix of fear and hate. Scott didn't blame them. 

And then suddenly, just like that, he couldn't do it anymore.

There was nothing he could do for this family right now, but he could begin to plan. Having already defied Apocalypse by living beyond his rule, the vast majority of them would end up in the breeding pens. Dark Beast preferred to let the prisoners simmer for a few days, let their fear grow even as the Brain Trust kept them docile. There was time to make this work. He and Alex had a shift in three days. 

He and Logan had agreed to meet in two, so at least Scott would have that, one last time. 

And then, whatever happened after... at least he would have finally done something good in his life.

At least he would have finally been a hero.

* * *

"Something troubling you, bub?" Logan asked over dinner. They were both still dressed, the bed unused. Scott hadn't felt the same urgency he normally did. He wanted to savour this night, to pretend that reality existed inside these walls instead of outside them. He wanted the lie instead of the truth. It annoyed him that Logan had seen through him so easily. He had needed this night to be easy. 

"Why are you doing this?" Scott asked, trying to deflect, intentionally leaving the question vague. 

Logan looked at him for a moment, taking his measure, before he started talking in that frank way that Scott was slowly beginning to accept was sincere. "I was barely more than an animal in a man's skin by the time Magneto took me in. Burning with anger, rage barely contained. Thanks to him, I learned to control the beast inside of me. Still comes out from time to time, as you've learned, but I'm better than I was. Wouldn't have happened at all if someone hadn't seen something in me worth fighting for."

Scott frowned down at his plate. "You want me to believe you're just paying it forward?"

"That's some of it," Logan admitted easily, "but it ain't all of it or even most of it. Not anymore."

"You know what I've done," Scott replied. "What I've stood by and watched. What I'm still doing."

Logan shrugged. "That's for you to live with, not me."

"What if I don't want to live with it anymore?" Scott asked, looking up at him. 

"Depends on what you're thinking of doing," Logan replied evenly. 

"Tomorrow, I'm going to open the breeding pens," Scott told him, his voice stronger than he had expected it would be. It was the first – and likely the last – time he had ever said it out loud. Hearing it with his own ears just convinced him it was the right decision. "I'll probably have to kill my brother." 

Logan reached for a cigar. He lit it, taking a few measured draws. "Sounds like a suicide mission."

"It does," Scott agreed. That was exactly what it was. What it had to be. "But I can't... this isn't me."

Logan made a quiet noise of agreement, still puffing away at his cigar. When he exhaled, smoke rolled from his lips. "Need a hand?" he asked. Scott stared at him. "Come on, Scotty. Use your head. I ain't just hanging around New York for the fun of it. Jeannie and me, we've been working on something."

Scott went cold. "So is this how Magneto and the X-Men usually do it? Fuck people into submission?"

"Magneto's dick has never been anywhere near me, and I plan on keeping it that way." 

"Then explain yourself," Scott demanded, slipping back into the mask of Prelate.

Logan made a sharp sound. "I _ain't_ been sent to seduce you in order to get at Sinister. This," Logan gestured between them and then around the room, "and that ain't related in any way. We've never been able to forget what we saw there. But I burned my bridge with Magneto, and it's been hard as shit to get anything done."

"You need someone on the inside," Scott said.

"Sure would help," Logan agreed amiably. "And I don't much like the idea of you dying."

"Apocalypse would hunt me to the ends of the earth."

Logan snorted, smoke drifting from his nostrils. "Join the club, bub. Just because he wants your head doesn't mean he gets it. He ain't actually as powerful as he thinks he is. Numbers might be smaller on the right side, but we do all right." He added, with a smirk, "You'd run with me and Jeannie after of course."

Scott frowned. "This... what we are... it isn't real." 

Logan shrugged. "Feels real enough to me. Don't see why it couldn't continue if you wanted it to."

"I don't deserve..."

"It ain't about deserving," Logan said, cutting him off. "It's about being a decent sort of man. You have a lot to atone for, same as me, but I do more good alive than dead, even if it's harder to live with. So if you want help, Jeannie and I will be glad to give it. Just tell us where and when, and we'll be there."

Scott stared at him, trying to read his intentions. Logan endured the scrutiny, relaxed and open. 

"Tomorrow, twenty hundred hours," he said eventually. "Alex and I are monitoring the pens."

"See, wasn't that easy?" Logan asked, taking one last drag on his cigar before snuffing it out. "And now we make the most of our evening together and enjoy each other's company. What comes tomorrow, comes. Ideally, we all make it out together on the other side, and then we continue to fuck Apocalypse's shit up."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Scott replied, trying to tamp down the hope blooming in his chest. 

"I'll make you believe, just you watch," Logan told him with a grin. Scott looked at him, at his smiling eyes and his teasing mouth, letting his gaze linger there. Logan's smile widened. One of his legs bumped Scott's beneath the table. "Tomorrow," he said. "After we survive, you're gonna ask me to kiss you."

"I wasn't..."

"You ain't no good at lying, Scotty," he said, cutting him off again. "Not to me."

"Then I think you should fuck me instead," Scott replied, meeting his gaze, and Logan chuckled warmly. He stood up and rounded the table, pulling Scott to his feet. Scott watched him through his hair as Logan set to taking off his clothes, piece by piece. Through it all, Scott stared at his mouth. 

_Tomorrow_ , he thought, wetting his lips with his tongue.

Tomorrow everything would change.

* * *

Scott woke up late in his own bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time before finally getting up. He followed his usual routine: showered, trimmed his stubble, brushed his teeth. He dressed carefully, fitting every part of his uniform perfectly into place. He ate a bland breakfast. He did some boring paperwork. 

It began raining in the early afternoon. He almost laughed, except he was sure it would give him away. 

After the first time they had fucked last night, Scott had laid in bed with Logan and told him everything he thought would be helpful. He told him about the Brain Trust and what Jean would have to do to dismantle it. Gave him the pass-codes and a spare key-card that Scott kept around for emergencies. If either of them were caught, there would be no denying just whose credentials they had used to get in.

They had fucked a second time, harder, more urgent, and Scott could still feel where Logan had been.

They hadn't kissed, though Scott had finally wanted to. 

Scott tried not to watch the time, dreading new orders, but time continued ticking forward and nothing out of the ordinary came up. One call came in, a routine mission that would take hours, and he assigned it to Emplate and the Monets. He hoped for a second one, to dispatch another team and whittle down their numbers, but nothing came. He'd removed the most dangerous of the sibling groups. That helped.

At four o'clock, he reported to the breeding pens for his shift. He didn't have to take these shifts often, but as Commander of the EMF, he felt it went a long way to soothing feelings of resentment if he did. 

Spending eight hours with Alex alone was torture that he knew he deserved. 

"I have other fucking things to do," Alex told him, sitting down at the console. "We're better than this."

"I don't want to hear you complaining all night," Scott replied sharply.

Alex rolled his eyes, muttering, "Fuck you," softly under his breath. Scott ignored him.

Time continued to pass. 

A minute before eight, Scott stood up and walked behind Alex, trying not to raise suspicion. Alex's eyes remained closed as he dozed. Scott had gone through all the options. Their powers would just cancel each other out, and a fistfight, as he unfortunately knew too well, would take longer than he wanted. He had briefly considered a weapon but that felt too permanent. He didn't actually want to kill Alex. 

He loved him. 

So Scott had stolen a tranquilizer from Dark Beast's lab. It was better than a sucker punch from behind. 

Alex startled slightly when Scott stuck the needle in his neck before slumping over in his chair. 

At exactly eight o'clock, Scott reached across the console and opened the pens. For a moment, silence hung but chaos quickly followed. Clearly, the Brain Trust had been dismantled. Something loosened in his chest, and then Scott took control of the situation. He began to guide the prisoners towards the exits. 

When the Beaubier Twins showed up, he took them both down. As their commanding officer, he knew their weaknesses. He heard Logan before he saw him and watched him fling himself at the Guthries in a rage. Scott caught sight of Jean near him, protecting the Prisoners from the lower level guards. 

The Bedlam Brothers never appeared.

Scott didn't know how many of the prisoners would survive outside the walls, but they had given them a chance, which was all any of them would ever have. When a fire door threatened to close on them and prevent them from escaping, Scott didn't hesitate and used his optic beam, blasting it wide open. 

He did the same to Dark Beast when he made a final attempt to stop them. 

Scott focussed entirely on what he had to do, what he had committed to do. He followed the crowd from behind, keeping the group protected. He shouted at them when he had to, barking out orders. It was pure, unadulterated, beautiful chaos. For the first time, he felt totally in control of his own life.

He only wished Sinister had been there to see it, so Scott could have taken him down, too.

* * *

Many hours later, once the former prisoners had been put on a boat and shipped away from the island, Scott finally sat down and took a breath. The rain continued to pour down, soaking him, but he barely noticed it, except to take comfort. Every inch of him hurt, but he felt a deep satisfaction. It didn't atone him, but it was a start. He resolved to keep going, to wipe as much grime off his soul as he could.

Logan sat down beside him, a bottle of whisky dangling from his fingers. "Impressive work, Slim."

"This won't stop Sinister," Scott said. "He'll find a way to replace what he lost."

"Probably," Logan agreed, "but he fills those pens up again, we'll just find another way to empty them."

"Without me..."

"We're better with you on this side," Logan said, cutting him off with a pointed look. "You gotta relax for a second, appreciate what you managed to do. Maybe you can't save 'em all, but you saved a hell of a lot today. The Underground will get these people settled far away from this apocalyptic shit-hole." 

Logan offered him the whisky bottle. Scott took a drink before handing it back. 

"Jeannie's eager to properly meet you," Logan told him, "but first there's something you gotta ask me." 

Scott snorted softly, but he placed the pads of his fingers on Logan's face, stroking over his cheek.

"Will you kiss me?" he asked. 

Logan grinned at him, and Scott leaned in, pressing his mouth to that infuriating smile. Logan growled, a warm rumbling sound that echoed over Scott's lips. His hand came up and twisted in Scott's hair, tilting his head, and then Logan was kissing him deeply, tongue stroking boldly into Scott's mouth.

Scott kissed him back, desperate for his touch, wanting everything that Logan offered. 

Knowing, deep down in his soul, that Logan would give him anything he asked for and more. 

Knowing that Prelate Summers was finally dead, and Cyclops had risen from the ashes.

Knowing that he was free. 

That was how it ended.

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on [Tumblr](https://atangeriner.tumblr.com/) and on Discord as Tangerine#1082.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When the Weather Turns - accompanying art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674371) by [CrowSizna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowSizna/pseuds/CrowSizna)




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